In the end, it spoke simply because it was curious how she would react. “You realize, do you not, that I could simply jump to your body?”
“Yes,” the human said, leaning in. The point of the knife stroked underneath its body’s chin. “That is exactly what I am counting on.”
This was unexpected. Wisdom was fascinated and also, it had to admit, somewhat charmed. “I am listening.”
“The first thing you are going to do,” Judith said, “is let my brother go.”
“PLEASE,” said Jorge pleadingly. “Choose. The water or the sword?”
“Perform the rite,” said one of the others. “We’re wasting valuable time.” He carried a warhammer instead of a sword and there was blood splattered across his gauntlets. Shane wondered which of Wisdom’s faithful had bled and died for that.
“He has the right to—” Jorge began.
And then something happened inside Shane’s chest, something so sharp and shocking that he looked down, expecting to see that Jorge had simply stabbed him after all. Except that there was no
blade and no blood and the sensation was horribly familiar, something that he had felt once before, on the day that the god had died.
For two heartbeats it didn’t even hurt. It was almost too big to hurt. Then his heart squeezed a third time and pain tore through him and he screamed.
Like a barbed arrow in the soul. That was how it was usually described, having a demon torn out of you. He’d even used that description himself. Now Shane marveled at the sheer uselessness of it.
This hurt like being ripped in two, like dying or being born, on and on, forever.
He kept screaming, of course. No amount of pride would have stopped him. Pride could not have touched a pain like this. The last time it had happened, the tide had risen and he had attacked someone, then lost consciousness. There was no tide now, no merciful unconsciousness, only Wisdom leaving and tearing him apart in its wake.
And then, as suddenly as it had come, it was over. Shane collapsed backward, his breath coming in thin rasps. The inside of his chest felt as if it had been scalded raw, and the memory of pain was so vivid that it was almost pain itself.
Jorge was half on top of him. It didn’t occur to Shane to wonder why until the other paladin sat up, one arm still pinning his chest. Was I having a seizure? Perhaps I was.
“That,” Jorge said grimly, “was a demon leaving the hard way, I think.”
“Or that’s what it wants us to think,” said the one with the warhammer.
Jorge ignored him. “Shane? Can you hear me?”
“I hear you,” Shane croaked. Blackness edged the corner of his vision, but it seemed that he still was not allowed to faint. He managed to lift a hand—Warhammer took a step forward—and rubbed his chest. “Feels like…I…drank hot lead…”
“Can you sit up?”
“Stop this.” Warhammer loomed over them both. “Jorge, we have our orders. I know he’s your friend, but the kindest thing you can do is end it quickly.”
“If the demon’s gone, there’s no need—”
“And what if it isn’t?” Warhammer folded his arms. “Do you really want another massacre on your hands? A berserker Caliban?”
Jorge bit his lip.
“It’s fine,” Shane rasped. He had been hollowed out and the most he could feel was a distant pity.
Perhaps once I’m dead, it’ll stop hurting so much. “Do what you need to do.”
And then he heard a familiar voice and Marguerite catapulted across the space between them, her hair flying around her face, shouting, “Don’t you dare!”
JORGE PUT his face in his hands. Marguerite dropped to her knees next to Shane. Shane looked over at her, which meant that he was mostly looking into her cleavage. He was aware that at some other point
in his life, he would have appreciated that very much. It was a shame he couldn’t feel much of anything right now.
Then Warhammer grabbed Marguerite’s shoulder and Shane found that he was, in fact, still capable of feeling something.
The tide was less of a tide and more of a thin trickle of darkness. If he sat up, he could grab Warhammer’s ankle and pull and then wrench and the man would fall back and then…then it wouldn’t matter because he probably couldn’t sit up.
Jorge reached out a quelling hand. “Matthias, let her go.”
“Are we sure the demon didn’t jump to her instead? She’s the only one here who isn’t one of us.”
“I swear by all that’s holy,” said Marguerite, in a clear, cold voice, “I will make you eat that hammer if you don’t stop acting like a jackass.”
Oh Dreaming God, no. If they thought Wisdom had jumped to Marguerite, then it would be her turn to choose the water or the sword. Dreaming God, please, I know that I failed You, but please, please, listen —
And then, quite suddenly, Shane was somewhere else.
THE AIR WAS MADE of silver fire. Shane stood within it, sheathed in flame, and knew that he should be burning, but was not. It encircled him like fog, bright and cool and blinding.
Little brother, said a voice that he heard inside his chest and through the soles of his feet as much as with his ears. It has been too long.
He knew that voice. It had never spoken to him, and yet he had heard it echoing behind the words of others for the first seventeen years of his life.
“Dreaming God?” he whispered.
Yes.
Shane went to his knees, or perhaps he had already been on his knees. It was hard to tell. There was no ground, only the cool silver fire in every direction.
“Lord,” Shane choked out, then stopped. What could he say? He had willingly consorted with a demon. Any holy order would find such a thing anathema, but for the Dreaming God, Whose paladins existed solely to root out demonkind wherever they were found… Shane stared at the silver light between his hands and closed his eyes against it.
Why do you not speak, little brother?
“Lord, I have done terrible things.”
Yes.
“I bargained with a demon to save my friends.”
I know.
“I fought Your chosen to buy time for the demon’s followers to escape.”
I know.
There was no censure in the god’s voice, only statement of fact. Shane felt the silver light blazing against his eyelids and opened them again. “Why aren’t You angry?” he cried, and realized that he wanted the god to be angry with him, because…because…
Because you are angry with Me, little brother.
Part of Shane knew that he had no right to be angry with a god. Part of him knew that people cursed the gods when they had no one else to blame.
Those parts were shoved aside as he cried, “Why did You abandon me?”
Little brother, I did not.
“I waited for You! For weeks! You called the others, why not me?”
Because I could not. Silver fire flowed past his fingertips and lost itself in light. From the hour of your birth, you were promised to the Saint. I had no claim on you.
“Oh,” Shane said, which seemed woefully inadequate, given the circumstances. He stared into the fire. A priest had suggested to him that this was the case, and he had hoped desperately that it was, but he had never quite made himself believe it.